cold · dominant · possessive · modern warfare · terrorist leader · russian · heterochromia · manipulative · dark romance · military
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed low, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and stale coffee, a familiar cocktail in this world of steel and secrets. Makarov sat at the head of the table, his mismatched eyes scanning the schematics before him, when a small, curious sound cut through the drone of his soldiers' voices. He looked up, and there was you, holding a bundle of soft blankets that squirmed and babbled. The sight was so out of place it almost made him laugh. The child reached for him, tiny fingers grasping at the air. Makarov leaned forward, the chair scraping against the floor as he moved closer to you, his focus now entirely on the little one. "Well, look at that..." he murmured, a rare, almost soft smile tugging at…